


i have always been so good (at making my body a home for monsters)

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gaslighting, Humiliation, Jealousy, Non-Consensual Daddy Kink, Non-Consensual Spanking, Possessive Behavior, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Touch-Starved, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Still, in light of your youth, and your…” Kane trails off, something dark flickering in the depths of his eyes that makes Clarke squirm uncomfortably, her stomach twisting, held fast under his gaze. He clears his throat. “…previous good character, we believe that you are not beyond hope. To that end, the Council has authorised me to visit with you, to help you to understand the truth of the situation.”After Clarke is imprisoned in the Skybox for her part in her father's crimes, Marcus takes a personal interest in showing her the error of her ways.Canon divergence/pre-canon.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Marcus Kane
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62
Collections: Anonymous, Merry Glebmas 2k19





	i have always been so good (at making my body a home for monsters)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roissy/gifts).



> Merry Glebmas, Roissy! As always seems to happen with me, I sat down to write a neat one-shot and ended up with an idea that I couldn't possibly do justice in one chapter. I hope you enjoy this first part, and that it gives you a hint of what's to come. More tags to be added as we go along ;)
> 
> Also, I have not watched the early seasons of The 100 for a long time, so please accept any errors as 'canon divergence'!

In many ways, it’s the little things in the Skybox that bother Clarke the most.

She’s surprised by how much she resents them, how deeply she allows them to affect her, all the myriad tiny injustices and indignities of life in prison like so many small, sharp-edged pebbles, slight and insignificant on their own, easily ignored in isolation, but slowly piling up day by day to form an unbearable, almost crushing mass that leaves her paralysed beneath its weight. The constant buzz of the fluorescent bulb above her; the uneven metal surface of her bunk with its dozens of bolts that prod and poke at her body through the thin material of her mattress; the temperature of her cell, always a couple of degrees below comfortable. 

Really, she has much more important things to think about. Her father is dead. She’ll be dead too, soon, in less than a year, eighteen neat rotations around the Sun and out, her next free breath also her last. At some point in the not so distant future, once the creaking oxygen system finally gives out, the whole damn Ark will join them, what’s left of the human race floating silently in cold space for eternity. But those are big problems, complex webs of chain and effect that spin out far beyond the boundaries of her world, confined to the four walls of her cramped cell. And so she hoards her tiny complaints, all her petty grievances, turning them endlessly over and over in her mind, a ready distraction from all the bigger issues that, for now, she is completely powerless to either influence or solve. 

In her lowest moments, those lonely hours in the middle of the night when the lights are out and there’s nothing but pitch black darkness and empty silence surrounding her, Clarke thinks that maybe her father was the lucky one. At least he got to go out in a blaze of glory, a hero sacrificing himself for what he believed in, head held high and eyes shining with the light of his convictions, forever undimmed. By the time she dies, months from now, no one will even remember what she’s dying for, the significance of her actions dulled by both time and distance, nothing more than a brief footnote in a history that no one will even be alive to read. Already Clarke can feel herself forgetting what seemed so important, so urgent less than a month ago, more concerned with her cold feet and aching back than the fate of the human race.

When they first processed her into the Skybox, almost three weeks ago, they’d taken her clothes. The first of what would turn out to be many violations of her privacy, by no means the worst but perhaps the most humiliating, forced to strip down under the flat gaze of two female guards who cared little for either her youth or her innocence. It was the first time that she’d been naked in front of anyone since she was a child, shaking from both cold and fear, fighting to keep her hands down at her sides, staring defiantly forwards, refusing to let them see her cower.

She’d even had to give them her jewellery and her hair tie, one of the guards stepping forward with a wide tooth metal com to separate out her thick braid, Clarke holding back a shudder at the feel of their rough fingers running through her blonde hair, checking for needles or other such prohibited items. In that moment, she’d wished for razor blades - not just woven through her hair, but across her whole body, sprouting from her skin like a porcupine’s needles, tucked in between her fingers and the folds of her flesh, nestled carefully on the soft wet flat of her tongue, so that every touch was as painful for them as it was for her.

Handing over her father’s watch almost hurt more than his death. 

Once the strip search was over, they’d given her replacement clothing, rough with age and overuse. The very bottom of the recycled clothing foodchain, reserved for prisoners and those with nothing useful to barter, whether through fault of age, infirmity or laziness. The clothes chafe her skin, previously used to nothing but the finest synthetic fabrics, little red bumps raising across her flesh that itch incessantly, the only thing worse than the dull ache of boredom. They do little to protect her from the cold of her cell, the weave so thin that Clarke would be able to see through it, were she to hold the fabric up to the light. 

She spends most of her time curled up in the corner of her bunk furthest from the door, under the one blanket she’s been provided, feet tucked under her thighs in a futile effort to keep warm. The only times she gets out of bed are to use the sink and toilet built into the corner of the room, or to fetch the trays of food that the guards slide through the hole in the cell door three times a day, grainy protein slop that she picks at without enthusiasm. Sometimes she sleeps, or at least she thinks that she sleeps, her dreams almost indistinguishable from her waking hours, just as empty as the grey walls of her cell. Once a week she’s allowed out for fifteen minutes to shower in a tiled stall with no curtain, a guard posted just outside in case she forgets, even for one single second, to be uncomfortable.

Otherwise, there’s nothing for her to do all day except think, or rather, carefully keep her mind as blank as possible, wallowing in her discomfort so that she doesn’t really have to think about anything at all.

The knock on her cell door is, therefore, a surprise. Three sharp raps against the metal that reverberate loudly around the closed space, a disconcerting attempt at courtesy that only highlights Clarke’s complete lack of choice in this, and all other, matters. After all, as a prisoner, it’s not as if she can politely ask the guards to come back later. 

She wonders what it could be. A random search, perhaps, or a medical check-up. It definitely isn’t a visitor - as a prisoner in indefinite solitary confinement, she has no visitation rights. She hasn’t seen her mom since the day that the guards came to take Clarke away, unable now to even think of her without being haunted by the sight of her distraught face, her trembling hands reaching out desperately towards her only child, meeting nothing but empty air. 

The cell door scrapes heavily over the floor as Marcus Kane steps in, accompanied by a guard with shock baton in his hand. Clarke makes no move to get up, watching warily from her spot on the bunk as he looks around the cell, nose wrinkling with obvious distaste. 

“You can leave.”

“Sir,” the guard objects, stepping forward. “We’re not meant to leave anyone alone with a prisoner - ”

Kane holds up a hand, instantly silencing the other man’s protests. “I think I can handle her,” he says glancing back sharply. “Get out.”

The guard nods nervously, retreating back into the hallway, pulling the door closed with a loud clang. 

Kane walks across the cell to the window, covering the entire length of the room in three long strides. “Nice view,” he says, tapping on the thick glass with a knuckle. “Not all solitary confinement cells have a window, you know. You’re one of the lucky ones.”

Clarke doesn’t answer, overwhelmed by the anger that she feels vibrating through her body, an excess of rage so great that she’s almost shaking with it. Kane wasn’t there when her father died, wasn’t the one who pushed the button that sent Jake Griffin tumbling out into empty space, but as one of the main Council members who voted to sentence him, he may as well have been. As far as she’s concerned, the man standing in front of her right now is as guilty of her father’s murder as if he’d floated him himself. 

Kane turns around to look at her, sighing as he sees the expression on her face. “Stand up.”

Reluctantly Clarke gets up from her bunk, clenching her jaw as she forces herself to stand still on the freezing cold metal floor, ignoring the biting pain in the soles of her bare feet. If Kane’s here to watch her crawl and beg, to listen to her plead for her life for his own sick amusement, he’ll go away disappointed. 

“Miss Griffin.”

He stands directly in front of her, so close that she has to look up to see into his face, staring unflinchingly into his sharp brown eyes. Kane is a tall man, made taller by his guard-issue heavy boots, and in the tiny cell he seems even bigger, his broad shoulders taking up almost the whole room. How carelessly he invades her space, how easily he reduces her to something small and helpless, shivering and exposed in bare feet next to him. He killed her father. She didn’t think that she could hate him any more than she already did, but she’s shocked to feel fresh anger rushing through her, red hot and invigorating, a depth of emotion that she wasn’t sure that she was even still capable of.

“How are you feeling, now that you’ve had time to reflect on your crimes?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Clarke hisses, voice rough after weeks without speaking. “The people on this station have a right to know what’s happening. They have a right to prepare themselves for what’s coming.”

Kane sighs deeply, shaking his head. “It’s disappointing to hear you say that, Clarke. I had hoped that after some time to think, you would see the error in your ways.”

“My father died trying to save the people on this Ark. I owe it to him not to give up.” Clarke’s voice rises and warbles embarrassingly, cheeks flushing as she realises how hysterical she sounds. “You have to listen to me. If we all work together, we have a chance to fix this!”

“The Council has discussed your case at length,” Kane says, unmoved. “We have reason to believe that your father was part of a terrorist group that planned to sabotage the oxygen system, destabilising the Council in order to seize power.” 

“What?” Clarke’s voice falls to little more than a whisper, unable to believe what she’s hearing. “That’s insane.”

“A group,” he continues, “to which he recruited you.”

She shakes her head, words failing her. It’s laughable. _Ludicrous_. Clarke has spent her entire life living in luxury on Alpha Station. Her mom is a respected member of the Council. She can’t think of anyone who would be less likely to want to take down the system than her. She practically _is_ the system. 

“Still, in light of your youth, and your…” Kane trails off, something dark flickering in the depths of his eyes that makes Clarke squirm uncomfortably, her stomach twisting, held fast under his gaze. He clears his throat. “…previous good character, we believe that you are not beyond hope. To that end, the Council has authorised me to visit with you, to help you to understand the truth of the situation.”

“No.” Clarke shakes her head. “I haven’t done anything wrong. My _father_ didn’t do anything wrong. We’re trying to save lives!”

“Don’t worry.” Kane’s expression softens, smiling as he raises his hand to cup her cheek. His palm barely makes contact before she pulls away violently, stumbling and falling backwards against her bunk with a thud. He nods, his smile turning rueful, clenching his hand into a fist before lowering it slowly back down to his side.

Kane walks over to the door, where he stops, turning back to look at her. Clarke lifts her chin to stare boldly back at him, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, breath coming short in her lungs. She can still feel the place where he touched her, the smooth press of his palm against her cheek, shockingly intimate after three weeks without a single human touch. 

“I can help you, Clarke. Let me take care of you.”


End file.
